I see by the new Sears Roebuck catalogue that
it is still possible to buy an axle for a 1909 Model T Ford, but I am
not deceived. The great days have faded, and the end is in sight. Only
one page in the current catalogue is devoted to parts and accessories
for the Model T; yet everyone remembers springtimes when the Ford
gadget section was larger than men's clothing, almost as large as
household furnishings. The last Model T was built in 1927, and the car
is fading from what scholars call the American scene - which is an
understatement, because to a few million people who grew up with it,
the old Ford practically was the American scene. It was the miracle
that God had wrought. And it was patently the sort of thing that could
only happen once. Mechanically uncanny, it was like nothing that had
ever come to the world before. Flourishing industries rose and fell
with it. As a vehicle, it was hard working, commonplace, heroic; and
it often seemed to transmit those qualities to the person who rode in
it. My own generation identifies it with Youth, with its gaudy,
irretrievable excitements; before it fades into the mist, I would like
to pay it the tribute of the sigh that is not a sob, and set down
random entries in a shape somewhat less cumbersome than a Sears
Roebuck catalogue.

The Model T was distinguished from all other makes of cars by the fact
that its transmission was of a type known as planetary - which was
half metaphysics, half sheer fiction. Engineers accepted the word
'planetary' in its epicyclic sense, but I was always conscious that it
also meant 'wandering', 'erratic'. Because of the peculiar nature of
this planetary element, there was always, in Model T, a certain dull
rapport between engine and wheels, and even when the car was in a
state known as neutral, it trembled with a deep imperative and tended
to inch forward. There was never a moment when the bands were not
faintly egging the machine on. In this respect it was like a horse,
rolling the bit on its tongue, and country people brought to it the
same technique they used with draft animals.

Its most remarkable quality was its rate of acceleration. In its palmy
days the Model T could take off faster than anything on the road. The
reason was simple. To get under way, you simply hooked the third
finger of the right hand around a lever on the steering column, pulled
down hard, and shoved your left foot forcibly against the low-speed
pedal. These were simple, positive motions the car responded by
lunging forward with a roar. After a few seconds of this turmoil, you
took your toe off the pedal, eased up a mite on the throttle, and the
car, possessed of only two forward speeds, catapulted directly into
high with a series of ugly jerks and was off on its glorious errand.
The abruptness of this departure was never equaled in other cars of
the period. The human leg was (and still is) incapable of letting in
the clutch with anything like the forthright abandon that used to send
Model T on its way. Letting in a clutch is a negative, hesitant
motion, depending on delicate nervous control; pushing down the Ford
pedal was a simple, country motion - an expansive act, which came as
natural as kicking an old door to make it budge.

The driver of the old Model T was a man enthroned. The car, with top
up, stood seven feet high. The driver sat on top of the gas tank,
brooding it with his own body. When he wanted gasoline, he alighted,
together with everything else in the front seat; the seat was pulled
off, the metal cap unscrewed, and a wooden stick thrust down to sound
the liquid in the well. There was always a couple of these sounding
sticks kicking around in the ratty sub-cushion regions of a flivver.
Refueling was more of a social function then, because the driver had
to unbend, whether he wanted to or not. Directly in front of the
driver was the windshield - high, uncompromisingly erect. Nobody
talked about air resistance, and the four cylinders pushed the car
through the atmosphere with a simple disregard of physical law.

There was this about a Model T; the purchaser never regarded his
purchase as a complete, finished product. When you bought a Ford, you
figured you had a start - a vibrant, spirited framework to which could
be screwed an almost limitless assortment of decorative and functional
hardware. Driving away from the agency, hugging the new wheel between
your knees, you were already full of creative worry. A Ford was born
naked as a baby, and a flourishing industry grew up out of correcting
its rare deficiencies and combating its fascinating diseases. Those
were the great days of lily-painting. I have been looking at some old
Sears Roebuck catalogues, and they bring everything back so clear.

First you bought a Ruby Safety Reflector for the rear, so that your
posterior would glow in another car's brilliance. Then you invested
thirty-nine cents in some radiator Moto Wings, a popular ornament
which gave the Pegasus touch to the machine and did something godlike
to the owner. For nine cents you bought a fan-belt guide to keep the
belt from slipping off the pulley. You bought a radiator compound to
stop leaks. This was as much a part of everybody's equipment as
aspirin tablets are of a medicine cabinet. You bought special oil to
stop chattering, a clamp-on dash light, a patching outfit, a tool box
which you bolted on the running board, a sun visor, a steering-column
brace to keep the column rigid, and a set of emergency containers for
gas, oil and water - three thin, disc-like cans which reposed in a
case on the running board during long, important journeys - red for
gas, gray for water, green for oil. It was only a beginning. After the
car was about a year old, steps were taken to check the alarming
disintegration. (Model T was full of tumors, but they were benign.) A
set of anti-rattlers (ninety-eight cents) was a popular panacea. You
hooked them on to the gas and spark rods, to the brake pull rod, and
to the steering-rod connections. Hood silencers, of black rubber, were
applied to the fluttering hood. Shock absorbers and snubbers gave
'complete relaxation'. Some people bought rubber pedal pads, to fit
over the standard metal pedals. (I didn't like these, I remember.)
Persons of a suspicious or pugnacious turn of mind bought a rear-view
mirror; but most Model T owners weren't worried by what was coming
from behind because they would soon enough see it out in front. They
rode in a state of cheerful catalepsy. Quite a large mutinous clique
among Ford owners went over to a foot accelerator (you could buy one
and screw it to the floor board), but there was a certain madness in
these people, because the Model T, just as she stood, had a choice of
three foot pedals to push, and there were plenty of moments when both
feet were occupied in the routine performance of duty and when the
only way to speed up the engine was with the hand throttle.

Gadget bred gadget. Owners not only bought ready-made gadgets, they
invented gadgets to meet special needs. I myself drove my car directly
from the agency to the blacksmith's, and had the smith affix two
enormous iron brackets to the port running board to support an army
trunk.

People who owned closed models builded along different lines: they
bought ball grip handles for opening doors, window anti-rattlers, and
de-luxe flower vases of the cut-glass anti-splash type. People with
delicate sensibilities garnished their car with a device called the
Donna Lee Automobile Disseminator - a porous vase guaranteed,
according to Sears, to fill the car with la faint clean odor of
lavender'. The gap between open cars and closed cars was not as great
then as it is now: for $11.95, Sears Roebuck converted your touring
car into a sedan and you went forth renewed. One agreeable quality of
the old Fords was that they had no bumpers, and their fenders softened
and wilted with the years and permitted the driver to squeeze in and
out of tight places.

Tires were 30 x 3 1/2, cost about twelve dollars, and punctured
readily. Everybody carried a ]iffy patching set, with a nutmeg grater
to roughen the tube before the goo was spread on. Everybody was
capable of putting on a patch, expected to have to, and did have to.

During my association with Model T's, self-starters were not a
prevalent accessory. They were expensive and under suspicion. Your car
came equipped with a serviceable crank, and the first thing you
learned was how to Get Results. It was a special trick, and until you
learned it (usually from another Ford owner, but sometimes by a period
of appalling experimentation) you might as well have been winding up
an awning. The trick was to leave the ignition switch off, proceed to
the animal's head, pull the choke (which was a little wire protruding
through the radiator) and give the crank two or three nonchalant
upward lifts. Then, whistling as though thinking about something else,
you would saunter back to the driver's cabin, turn the ignition on,
return to the crank, and this time, catching it on the downstroke,
give it a quick spin with plenty of That. If this procedure was
followed, the engine almost always responded - first with a few
scattered explosions, then with a tumultuous gunfire, which you
checked by racing around to the driver's seat and retarding the
throttle. Often, if the emergency brake hadn't been pulled all the way
back, the car advanced on you the instant the first explosion occurred
and you would hold it back by leaning your weight against it. I can
still feel my old Ford nuzzling me at the curb, as though looking for
an apple in my pocket. In zero weather, ordinary cranking became an
impossibility, except for giants. The oil thickened, and it became
necessary to lack up the rear wheels, which for some planetary reason,
eased the throw.

The lore and legend that governed the Ford were boundless. Owners had
their own theories about everything; they discussed mutual problems in
that wise, infinitely resourceful way old women discuss rheumatism.
Exact knowledge was pretty scarce, and often proved less effective
than superstition. Dropping a camphor ball into the gas tank was a
popular expedient; it seemed to have a tonic effect both on man and
machine. There wasn't much to base exact knowledge on. The Ford driver
flew blind. He didn't know the temperature of his engine, the speed of
his car, the amount of his fuel, or the pressure of his oil (the old
Ford lubricated itself by what was amiably described as the 'splash
system'). A speedometer cost money and was an extra, like a
windshield-wiper. The dashboard of the early models was bare save for
an ignition key; later models, grown effete, boasted an ammeter which
pulsated alarmingly with the throbbing of the car. Under the dash was
a box of coils, with vibrators which you adjusted, or thought you
adjusted. Whatever the driver learned of his motor, he learned not
through instruments but through sudden developments. I remember that
the timer was one of the vital organs about which there was ample
doctrine. When everything else had been checked, you had a look at the
timer. It was an extravagantly odd little device, simple in
construction, mysterious in function. It contained a roller, held by a
spring, and there were four contact points on the inside of the case
against which, many people believed, the roller rolled. I have had a
timer apart on a sick Ford many times. But I never really knew what I
was up to, I was just showing off before God. There were almost as
many schools of thought as there were timers. Some people, when things
went wrong, just clenched their teeth and gave the timer a smart crack
with a wrench. Other people opened it up and blew on it. There was a
school that held that the timer needed large amounts of oil; they
fixed it by frequent baptism. And there was a school that was positive
it was meant to run dry as a bone; these people were continually
taking it off and wiping it. I remember once spitting into a timer;
not in anger, but in a spirit of research. You see, the Model T driver
moved in the realm of metaphysics. He believed his car could be hexed.

One reason the Ford anatomy was never reduced to an exact science was
that, having 'fixed' it, the owner couldn't honestly claim that the
treatment had brought about the cure. There were too many
authenticated cases of Fords fixing themselves - restored naturally to
health after a short rest. Farmers soon discovered this, and it fitted
nicely with their draft-horse philosophy: 'Let 'er cool off and she'll
snap into it again.'

A Ford owner had Number One Bearing constantly in mind. This bearing,
being at the front end of the motor, was the one that always burned
out, because the oil didn't reach it when the car was climbing hills.
(That's what I was always told, anyway.) The oil used to recede and
leave Number One dry as a clam flat; you had to watch that bearing
like a hawk. It was like a weak heart - you could hear it start
knocking, and that was when you stopped to let her cool off. Try as
you would to keep the oil supply right, in the end Number One always
went out. 'Number One Bearing burned out on me and I had to have her
replaced,' you would say, wisely; and your companions always had a lot
to tell about how to protect and pamper Number One to keep her alive.

Sprinkled not too liberally among the millions of amateur witch
doctors who drove Fords and applied their own abominable cures were
the heaven sent mechanics who could really make the car talk. These
professionals turned up in undreamed-of spots. One time, on the banks
of the Columbia River in Washington, I heard the rear end go out of my
Model T when I was trying to whip it up a steep incline onto the deck
of a ferry. Something snapped; the car slid backwards into the mud. It
seemed to me like the end of the trail. But the captain of the ferry,
observing the withered remnant, spoke up.

'What's got her?' he asked.

'I guess it's the rear end,' I replied listlessly. The captain leaned
over the rail and stared. Then I saw that there was a hunger in his
eyes that set him off from other men.

'Tell you what,' he said casually, trying to cover up his eagerness,
'let's pull the son of a bitch up onto the boat, and I'll help you fix
her while we're going back and forth on the river.'

We did just this. All that day I plied between the towns of Pasco and
Kenniwick, while the skipper (who had once worked in a Ford garage)
directed the amazing work of resetting the bones of my car.

Springtime in the heyday of the Model T was a delirious season. Owning
a car was still a major excitement, roads were still wonderful and
bad. The Fords were obviously conceived in madness: any car which was
capable of going from forward into reverse without any perceptible
mechanical hiatus was bound to be a mighty challenging thing to the
human imagination. Boys used to veer them off the highway into a level
pasture and run wild with them, as though they were cutting up with a
girl. Most everybody used the reverse pedal quite as much as the
regular foot brake - it distributed the wear over the bands and wore
them all down evenly. That was the big trick, to wear all the bands
down evenly, so that the final chattering would be total and the whole
unit scream for renewal.

The days were golden, the nights were dim and strange. I still recall
with trembling those loud, nocturnal crises when you drew up to a
signpost and raced the engine so the lights would be bright enough to
read destinations by. I have never been really planetary since. I
suppose it's time to say goodbye. Farewell, my lovely!

* E.B. White is the author of
Charlotte's Web and One Man's Meat, among other works.

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